


This Was Our Home

by tiniestdormouse



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestdormouse/pseuds/tiniestdormouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Emily Sinclair thought she had nothing left when her parents died, until she looked for the one man who felt the same. AU.</p><p>Originally written for the PH Fanfest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Was Our Home

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of “To Build a Home” — The Cinematic Orchestra lyrics

 

 

Rumors spoke of a bloodthirsty ghost who haunted the streets of Reveil. A washerwoman first spoke of seeing a fleeting pale shape one evening, dripping red— she stumbled upon the body in the alleyway. A carriage driver whispered of his horses spooked around the dead hours, refusing to pass certain streets when they smelled blood. The head of the constables, a portly man with copious side-whiskers red enough to match his nose, snorted that all of these stories were false until reports that three of his officers within three weeks had gone missing—- and only parts them were retrieved.

Then nobles got involved. A minor one— a landless viscount was found hacked to death in his townhouse. Like all the other murders, the link was found — an X-shaped slash upon the body. All of the victims — whether found whole or as only remains — had all shared this trait— a bloody X somewhere, as if keeping tally.

Eventually, when reports of this monster, towering and gleaming, with a sword of steel that thirsted for blood, reached the ears of Pandora, Lord Conall Barma rang for Lady Emily Sinclair to meet him in his office.

“So, these stories have proven to be true,” he mused, twisting his mustache— a habit he fell into when anxious.

“Indeed.” Lady Emily flipped through the growing file for one of the most infamous cases Pandora has ever seen. “We’ve tracked this red-eyed ghost through seven towns the last seven years. And now he’s finally hit Reveil.” Lifeless faces and unattached body parts moved past her pale gaze — over one hundred people have died or gone missing, each of their deaths pinned to one set of linked clues: a glowing armored giant, a merciless sword, a running blur of a man with eyes like a demon. Whatever commoners say, this was no supernatural creature, but a danger nonetheless: an illegal contractor. Perhaps one of the most powerful illegal contractors Pandora has ever seen.

Before Lord Conall spread a map with marks pinning down a spattered mass of red where each of the Red-Eyed Ghost’s killings took place.

“They are all within ten kilometers of each other, spread out in a circle. We’ve covered numbers 1-245 to no avail.” The whole map was divided into a grid, and each square marked with a number. Patrols have been sent to search each area for signs of the Ghost over the years, sometimes coming to the same areas again and again. But no matter how many witness reports they have found, no matter how many clues they have gathered, the Red-Eyed Ghost or his hiding place was no where to be found. “The damned wretch keeps escaping us,” Barma muttered, twisting the mustache harder. “He must have a set of hideaways at this point, and flees from one to another randomly after a kill.”

“Or not randomly at all.” Lady Emily took out her own map— instead of marking the times and places of death, it sorted out the victims by name and rank. “I’ve noticed this pattern of all the people who have died.”

“Oh?”

“They all have family or employment history linked to one household. Some of these connections were quite distant in the beginning, but as soon as the Ghost started taking the merchants and then Lord Kensington…”

The head of Pandora gave a harumpf sound; he knew well where she was going.

“And that is why you called me, is that it?” Lady Emily blinked. “Am I a suspect?”

“Lady Emily, you are a highborn woman and have come along way since Pandora had taken you in as a child,” Barma started.

“But nonetheless, you think I could be a murderer?” Her gaze was cold— it was always cold and precise, ever since she was a little girl. “If I had an illegal contract, then it would not matter what my rank or age or status is. We have seen children of seven commit atrocities under the power of a Chain.” Emily placed the file on Barma’s desk and folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me the truth, Lord Barma. Am I to be arrested for these murders?”

Outside, she heard the subtle steps of officers behind the closed door and she didn’t make a move as Barma aimed his revolver at her. Any move would only confirm their suspicions. Then again, Lord Conall could shoot her in the face right now, and she knew that she could deflect the bullet easily. Maybe the shot would ricochet and hit him square between the eyes. For a brief moment, she saw this play out: a line of red streaking the man’s face, eyes turned upward, mouth slack with shock, the burst of boots behind her as hands reached to drag her away…

As Lady Emily looked at the old man’s face, she felt, however, a pang in her chest. The Barma household took guardianship over her after everyone in her home was massacred by a rival family when she was nine years old, and she thought of Lord Conall as a friend and mentor.

Still, her mind rationalized — for she gained the Barma cunning as well as the Barma generosity while under his tutelage — because she had reached her sixteenth birthday three months ago. As now heir to the Sinclair household, she controlled the lands and riches that were previously under Barma oversight. If Lord Conall ever entertained the thought of taking over her family’s fortune, this would be the perfect plot— pin the series of murders upon her shoulders, have her locked away, and ask the king to disband the Sinclair House and give everything to Barma. A neat power play, she had to admit.

“Lord Conall,” she said, even softer. “How long have you suspected?”

“Not as long as you assume,” Barma stated. “Only when Kensington died did I finally concede to the truth…”

“But I’m not the Ghost!” She snapped, raising her head sharply. *I must be cold,* she thought, but the tears sprang forth nonetheless. “But I believe I know who this may be.”

The gun lowered.

“I believe you.”

“And, I swear I was never in league with the Ghost, either, Lord Conall.” Lady Emily inhaled sharply, trying to rein in her emotions. She never cracked, not even at the most gruesome sights she had seen as his apprentice officer, and she knew that Lord Conall had never seen her cry since she was a young girl, and this is what must’ve stayed his hand. She didn’t want to accuse him of trying to steal her title— that idea was too painful to admit.

“How soon do you think you’ll be able to track this Ghost?”

“Give me and my partner ten men and three days. I swear I will bring him in.”

Either way, Barma wins, she knew. She either returned with a murderer and earn praise from the king for the capture — which would reinforce Barma’s position at Pandora. Or she would be killed, along with everyone else, and Barma can claim his rights to the Sinclair name. She did not want to accuse this man as being unfeeling or calculating, though both were truths she had witnessed numerous times over the years.

Lady Emily rose to her feet, gathered her skirts, and lifted her chin. “One request, Lord Conall.”

The man tilted his head, and she thought how much of a fox he looked like then, with the whiskers like fire and that long thin face.

“Once I return, I will be discussing my marriage prospects. There are suitors already, but I wish to consult with you before making any decisions.”

“You have an eye on young Rufus then?” Barma cracked a smile.

A blush crossed her cheeks. “If my Lord allows.” She swallowed hard, knowing her hand had been played. When she returned — if she did — tying herself into the Barma household would give her the protection she needed from their plots. She would keep her house alive, for now.

“Of course.”

Lady Emily curtseyed and left the office. The hallway was empty, as if none of Barma’s men had been ready to take down a potential monster.

*I am cold and I am a survivor,* Lady Emily told herself. Her heart trembled at the thought. *I will do anything I must to keep my family name alive.* It was all she had left.

***

Lady Emily had been through so much over the years since her parents’ deaths. Alone, a mere girl, and sheltered from the ways of the world, taking Barma’s guardianship had been the best option. She had been trained at Pandora to be part of its all-encompassing force, learning how to kill, taking a Chain of her own. Even now, nightmares of the massacre plagued her sleep, and she perpetually had dark circles under her eyes from insomnia. Though she was young, she advanced quickly under Barma’s eye and went on patrol with his men and women. She had seen countless deaths and worse, until fine grey hairs threaded their way through her golden curls, which she kept held in a tight bun. Though she was barely half-way into her teenage years, Emily sometimes felt like a very old woman.

The carriage rolled to a stop half a mile from her intended destination. She nodded to her partner who sat in the carriage with her. “Take your men and encircle the estate. I’ll approach from the front.”

“Yes, Lady Emily.” The officer took Lady Emily’s hand and helped her out of the carriage before she and her men vanished into the overgrown forests.

The roads were unpaved and muddy from last nights rains; she lifted her skirts and felt her boots sink into the muck. Nonetheless, she stuck to the main road which lead all the way to the front of the manor. Cool air touched her cheeks and blew threw the tendrils of hair as she walked; the overcast sky hinted at further showers.

Close to the estate, the road turned from dirt to uneven paved cobblestones — which haven’t been repaired in years — but by the time she reached the house, a line of brown had seeped its way a few inches above her hems. She looked up at the dead-eye windows and brunt out visage. She had the option of rebuilding and moving back, but never did, instead moving entirely to a new estate. The old Sinclair manor-house contained too many ghosts — including one living one she suspected that resided within.

The front gardens had turned into a wild jungle over the years: vine creepers reached out and covered the front columns; the hedges were walls of green and thorns, the rose bushes had bloomed with flowers flushed crimson and dripping like giant drops of blood. The tree in the front, one that was planted upon her birth, grew twisted, its branches reaching out to pierce the blackened front windows of the parlor room where she had played as a child. Lady Emily touched the roughened bark of this tree and looked toward the front steps, which had collapsed into themselves and were impassible to traverse.

She took hold of the lowest bough and noticed how clear the tree’s base was of weeds and grass, how there was a neat edge to the hedges that grew here. Through the window, missing glass but without any shards, and the shadows that lay within. She hiked herself up and noticed the notches hewn into the wood for easy climbing, even in her skirts. She was not the first person to climb this tree.

Within minutes, she was up the towering tree and over the window ledge. The floor she landed in was free of dirt or dust. Looking around, she saw how this room was empty, clean of any burnt-out furniture. Only a table and a wooden chair remained, covered in dust. Candle stubs sat like a ridge of uneven mountains along the top of the scarred wooden table. In the corner, a pile of ragged coats and blankets. The fireplace, blackened not from the flames that torn down the manor, but from recent use. She touched the ashes. Warm.

Brushing off her hands, she walked forward through the fading afternoon sunlight, her nose itching from the dust. In the hallway, rotten remnants of plush carpeting covered the floor. The scent of mold filled her nose and she sneezed.

*Clank.*

A shadow.

A swoosh of air.

A steel blade.

“Mock Turtle!” she shouted.

*Clang!*

The shadow darted away, its silver blade bouncing off the shield that formed around her.

The Mock Turtle, her Chain, had form its protective barrier around her, stopping the blow from hitting her. This Chain was her companion since she had been 13 years old, and her truest friend. Without its protective powers, she surely would’ve been assassinated years ago. In the back of her mind, she saw the Mock Turtle slowly shuffle, and knew its Shell had prevented the blade from cutting through.

Down the hallway, the pale shadow fled, a blur of white. She followed.

“Stop!” she cried, pulling out her revolver. “In the name of Pandora!”

Her boots thunked against the floorboards. A misstep and suddenly, she heard a sharp crack! and her left foot gave away. She felt through the broken boards and spread her arms, stopping her fall before she fell through the floor completely. Her arms bracing either side of her, she strained, pulled her foot up, and gingerly rose to her feet. A sharp pain from her ankle and she winced. Damn the gods!

She couldn’t let the Red-Eyed Ghost get away!

*Clunk! Shing!*

She fell forward, her Chain’s Shield defecting another blow. To her left, she saw the shadow and a large towering figure behind it. She could not see the Ghost — his body was backlit by the glow of his Chain, an enormous shining knight, its cowl and gauntlets stained with blood.

“Stop!” she shouted again, raising her revolver, but knowing how useless it would be to fire.

The Ghost approached. Through the falling slants of sunlight, she saw his pale hair hanging loose and wild, his sallow skin and gaunt face, the patchwork clothes that exposed his chest, revealing that tell-tale incluse, nearing completion. The Ghost’s red eyes glared at her as she whispered his true name.

“Kevin.”

Sir Kevin Regnard gripped his sword in one hand and lowered his arm and, like a disturbing mirror, the White Knight imitated his move.

“M’Lady.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “You’ve grown old.”

“So have you.” Lady Emily shifted her crouched position to favor her injured leg. So many responses rushed into her brain— she had imagined this moment happening for the last seven years. A flicker in her mind of her crying in her parents tomb, and his gallant figure in the threshold.

*”Don’t leave me. Please… Kevin, you’re all I have left…”*

But Kevin did and she was alone and no one helped her except for Lord Conall Barma in a devil’s deal. She wanted to scream, “I hate you, I hate you!”; she wanted to shoot all of her bullets into his chest; she wanted to run away and never see that face again. Lady Emily Sinclair did none of these things. Instead, for the second time in two days, she cried.

“Why?” she gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re the last one,” Kevin whispered. He took one step closer and then another— as long as the Shell remained, Lady Emily was safe and so she let him. Kevin knelt down and placed his sword on the ground between then, like a barrier.

“The Knight demands vengeance.” Kevin stared at her face and she saw how the skin stretched across the bones. How both of them shared the same haunted dark circles below their eyes. “He wants one death for every death inflicted upon us, M’Lady. But they have to be tied to us too, you understand? These can’t be random deaths, or else… I would have chosen differently.” His tone had an oddly flat quality too it, more inhuman than otherwise. Lady Emily recognized that quality as part of her own voice as well.

“So you killed every person who still remained associated with our House,” she whispered, knowing fully well its implications. “All relatives to our servants, to our business contacts, our distant kin…”

“Blood for blood. They would’ve sacrificed their lives to save their kinsmen, I’m sure.” His eyes glinted, hard as stone. He reached out and placed a hand on the edge of her skirts where they pooled in her sitting position, kissed the marred cloth in benediction. “I miss your parents very much, Lady Emily.”

A hiccup from her throat as her eyes burned from the dust and mold and emotion. “I hate you.”

He stared. “I never hated you. You understand I had to leave to save them, dear Miss.”

“Dear Miss"— she hadn’t heard that term of affection in years.

"You’re a monster.” Again, her flat voice to match his.

“I know.” He rose to his feet, gathering his sword again, and, she slowly stumbled onto hers, favoring her lame leg and falling backwards a few paces. “But now everyone is completely gone. That’s the only way we can change the past, dear Miss, if we clean up all loose ends.”

“I’m not a loose end.” Her palm sweated through her glove as she aimed, cocked the hammer. Kevin didn’t make a move and and Lady Emily wondered how close was that incluse at its end. Which would come first: her fatal shot or his descent into the Abyss?

“We can bring your parents back. Make sure this reality never happens. Please, dear Miss, the Knight demands vengeance, and you are the final sacrifice. The Abyss can grant my wish and everything—”

“YOU CAN’T CHANGE ANYTHING!” she shouted, unable to bear it any longer. She thought that she became the cold one, but that wasn’t true— Kevin, the man who carried her on his shoulders as a wee girl, the one who stood at her father’s side every day, the one who fetched the doctor and saved her mother’s life when she was ill with fever — Kevin was gone and only this Ghost remained.

Behind him, the Knight suddenly shifted position into first stance, and Kevin bent over, gritting his teeth. His free hand clutched his chest.

“Let down the Shell,” he hissed, “You’re the last one, and the Knight needs you. Do it or it will be too late when I go.”

“I can’t do that.” She closed her eyes, feeling the last of the cold melt away. The world seemed to be turning at her feet too quickly. She saw a million scenarios play out in a dozen worlds: she is dead, Kevin is dead, the world cracked beneath their feet with the Abyss below, the Knight roaring as the sword falls, her parents, laughing and opening their arms and saying, “Emmy, Emmy, darling, come home, come home…”

The shot cut through the air. Kevin’s eyes widened for an instant, before his knees buckled and he fell. Blood splattered Lady Emily, the walls, the floor. The White Knight gave a silent scream and burst apart in a nova of pure, cold light that cracked like ice.

The patrol officer emerged from her place crouching from the back hallways, lowering her rifle.

“Lady Sinclair?”

She fell to her knees by the body, dropping her revolver, clutching the dead knight’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come home sooner.” Wet spots dotting the man’s coat, his cheek, his hair.

Quietly, a hand touched her shoulder. “Well done, Lady Emily,” the woman said, shouldering her rifle. “Lord Conall will be pleased.”

Lady Emily looked up toward the second-in-command of Pandora, quickly wiping her face. “He stayed all these years, Lady Sheryl, but I never came back to look for him.”

“Hush, Emmy.” The young woman helped her up. “Let’s get this wrapped up.”

Lady Emily fell against her warm shoulder as the two women exited the empty manor-house through the back gardens, as the rest of the squad entered to clean up the mess. Lady Emily glanced at Lady Sheryl, and wondered if she should tell her her intentions on marrying Lord Rufus, but decided that she could only bear so much heartache in one day. Besides which, Lady Sheryl never expressed any open interest in Lord Rufus.

Outside in the carriage, one of the patrolmen brought out Kevin Regnard’s sword. Lady Emily grasped the handle and read the inscription on the blade (since all good knights named their swords.) She patted the tarnished blade, one that had drank up so much death and despair.

Lady Emily’s grip tightened. She will keep this sword by her side, always, to remind her of her lost knight. “Hello Xerxes.”


End file.
